


A Problem with Flying

by Starffledust



Series: The Ramblings of Silent Stars [4]
Category: Guardians of Childhood - William Joyce, Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, But they're just dreams, Dreams, Found Family, Gen, I tagged animal characters, Light Angst, Purple Prose, References to The Golden Age, They look like animals, because sometimes I can't help myself, references to astronomy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-20 06:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30000555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starffledust/pseuds/Starffledust
Summary: Something was wrong. A part of himself was missing, but he couldn't find it, even as he scoured each sleeping mind and grain of sand.A ribbon of Dreamsand, forming fins like a fish, flew off into the dark night.
Series: The Ramblings of Silent Stars [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124735
Kudos: 2





	1. A Dream and a Bunny Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lost dream receives a visitor, and the Sandman worries about what he does not know.

Dreams cannot die. At least, not as a mortal might.

The souls of dreams are infinite; they persist. Dreams dwell in the mind and linger, learning all that they can about the world and themselves before returning to their dream realm. It’s a personal challenge for each and every one, to find a muse or a dreamer with whom to explore the worlds of both reality and imagination.

But sometimes even dreams get lost.

In a forest, far beyond curious human sights, a little dream shivered, outlined in trembling silver. They huddled closer to the ground, back pressed against a solid tree trunk.

It was cold. Natural frost spread across everything—the trees, the fallen leaves, and even the dirt—without aid from any spirits. The moon did not show tonight, spent rain clouds hanging over the land like a weighted blanket.

Everything was silent, but the dream would whine if only they could speak.

Something glowed behind them, and the dream’s ears perked like a frightened deer as they leapt to their four legs. Their fluid form did not make anything distinguishable to the human eye between the brief flashes of their silver coat, though one might mistake them for a grey-colored fawn in the lowlight.

Clouds covered the moon, but the dream’s metallic glow was a beacon to the sky.

_ Hello?  _ the dream called out. They moved their head forward, the strange light catching in their curious eyes.

The glow brightened, and a whirling ribbon of gold descended from the sky, hissing softly and twinkling like starlight. It drew closer in lazy circles, and the dream ducked under a tree root to hide from the strange warmth it brought.

The ribbon’s uneven surface glittered like grains of sand—indeed, it was. Silver shapes like the dream’s own pranced on the surface of each one—invisible to the untrained eye.

The dream dared not move from their hiding spot. The silver along their back faded to the dull grey of aged hair, blending into the damp grass.

_ Hello?  _ someone else called back. A fish leapt out of the ribbon and swam closer to the dream’s shelter of roots.

It was such a small thing, that fish. It must’ve been a guppy. But its surface glittered, and its tails fanned wider than any fish the dream had ever seen (and they had seen a lot of fish).

_ Fear not me,  _ said the fish, swimming around in the air, searching for the lost dream.  _ I am a friend. _

_ You are a stranger,  _ said the dream.

The fish halted, fins moving lethargically through the air, slowly bobbing up and down as if in real water. The ribbon had disappeared.

_ Yes, but I hope not long,  _ the fish said at last, looking to the ground, where it had sensed the dream speaking. It brightened even further, uncovering the smallest hint of the dream’s form in the shadows.

The little dream poked their head through the barricade of roots, looking at the golden fish with their silver, incorporeal eyes.  _ Do you know Eyia?  _ they asked the fish.

_ Once.  _ The fish twinkled in satisfaction and swam closer with an invisible smile. _ But she is gone now. _

The dream looked down sadly.

_ Why want her?  _ The fish tilted sideways, like a cock of the head.

_ She used to dream with me. _

The fish said nothing as the dream rested the shimmer of their head on a root. A shape like ears formed above their head, flattening sadly.

The shadows beneath them curled away as their silver light returned.

_ Have you ever had someone to dream with?  _ they asked the fish after a moment.

There was no response.

The little, silver dream lifted their head, scanning the darkened grasses and trees.

But the fish had gone.

***

The Sandman was a being of dreams, not words. But even he could have opinions on such things.

His least favorite word by far, through all of time and human history, in every language, was  _ genocide. _

He did not flinch at its grotesque subject, for he was a master of imagination, which encompassed horror in ways unbeknownst even to Pitch Black. 

No, he did not flinch from the images it drew; he had fought many battles and seen many deaths. He flinched because the word failed even in the law of terrors. It failed in its human simplicity.

_ Genocide _ was such a simple word. It didn't encompass the grief, the crumpling of belief, or the silence. It did not describe the horrid sights accompanied with its realization. It did not begin to hold the sheer  _ madness  _ that was the fall of empires; no forsaken kings, no death of children, no scenes of blood and ripped carnage.

_ Genocide _ was not a true descriptor for its own meaning. Like a victorious history book after war, it lied to the ears and eyes, feeding the perception with fairytales coated in wins and losses, of just another dragon for the hero to slay. That is why the Sandman loathed it so.

A being of little words—if any—a word which lied was not one worth saying.

And the word  _ genocide  _ lied. It did not describe emotion, but figures with no substance. The larger the number, the less it meant—unless you were the outlier, the .001% of the hundreds. Then it meant everything.

That is why the Sandman loathed it, for to him the word meant everything and yet nothing at all.

He hovered several feet above the ground, far below the comforting cradle of the clouds or the sliver of sunlight over the horizon. The only familiar sight was the faint glow of Dreamsand which reflected off the morning dew.

Sandy stood unsure atop his cloud, staring down at the dark opening in the earth, which had appeared as he neared the island.

Did its occupant know that the Sandman was coming? He couldn't have.

And yet the lapping of the waves behind Sandy remained calm, undisturbed by the entrance standing so plainly against the ground. A faint rustle of the shore questioned his idleness, as if it, too, expected him to follow the tunnel down to its maker.

But no matter how long he stood there, only queasiness found him. Gone was the determination to confront or reason. Gone was the feeling of sound in his throat, which had been absent for so many centuries. 

Left in their places were but two holes: one in the ground and one inside himself, where his heart had recently beat so strongly with faith.

Yes, there was no room for an utterance of genocide here. It had already come and gone. 

Sandy shook his head and raised his cloud higher with a thought. Bringing another remnant of those days would bring only destruction to this already fragile foundation dug into the ground.

_ I will not visit him tonight.  _ The sand bustled around him, whispering with his decision.  _ It can wait. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter started out as a part of my other series [Bunnymund Deals With His Issues](https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089344), but then my overflowing love for Sandy just kinda ran away from me. So I repurposed it for a Sandy story.
> 
> There are a lot of headcanons here, but they're very similar to a lot of my other stories, so I'll quote my past self:
> 
> I use this in multiple of my works, but I like to think that dreams are incorporeal. So while humans can see images in the Dreamsand, they can't see the dreams themselves (which I choose to visualize as silver). Wishes and dreams kinda act the same way, since a dream is just a finalized wish. Wishes can either be "heard" or seen above someone's head kinda like when Sandy's talking with symbols. But only those attuned to seeing or hearing them (like Star Pilots) can.
> 
> Also no, you're not supposed to know who Eyia is. She's just a random kid for the purpose of the story. Nor are you supposed to know the dreams. They're also random, but there will always be a scene with them before Sandy's.
> 
> Next chapter coming soon!


	2. Natural Way of Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fish leads a little dream away from the shadows and into the sky.
> 
> Meanwhile, Mother Nature stops by, but this time she is not so forgiving.

The fish returned the next night, but this time it was even smaller. Its frayed fins did not blanket the sky, and the ribbon which carried it was even thinner.

_ You look sad,  _ the dream said to the fish, rolling onto their broad side. They lay in the open now, relishing the dying rays of sunlight on the horizon and stretching their silver limbs across the grass.

_ Perhaps.  _ The fish swam closer with the same ease as usual, bobbing beside the little dream’s head.  _ But not sad. _

The dream twitched, the face where they had none twisting with sadness.  _ Did you lose your dreamer, too?  _ they asked. They stood, inching closer to the fish as if to reach out in comfort.

_ I have lost many, but not today,  _ said the fish. It turned to them, sunken eyes looking at them with the compassion that all the saints of humanity could never offer.  _ May I show you something? _

The little dream nodded slowly.  _ What is it? _

The fish smiled conspiratorially, though its face remained unchanged.  _ Follow me,  _ it said, and then leapt atop the ribbon like it was water, swimming upward along the string.

With the silver across their back brightening, the dream leapt up, following the ribbon’s path. They easily caught up to the fish in the sky and flew beside them with prancing legs. Feathers flickered around them like disheveled wings as cities passed at great speeds below.

_ You seem like the type to have many stories,  _ the dream said.

The fish regarded them for a moment, then it shot straight up, the ribbon collapsing into the air. 

The dream stared up at the sky for a moment, mind working to make sense of the golden blotch on the otherwise darkened sky.  _ Wait!  _ they cried and moved to follow, jumping upward on air. 

The two ascended quickly, the dream jumping higher and higher with each prance. They had never been so high. Or if they had, it was long ago and they couldn't quite remember the scent of the sky.

The dark clouds still hung overhead, restraining their rain for yet another night, but the fish flew easily into them, like they were mere sand to sift. Its form disappeared, but the dream still followed, holding their thoughts like breath.

Finally, the dream resurfaced above the canopy of clouds and rejoined the fish’s side. The setting sun peeked above the cloudy horizon and brushed against the fish’s golden form with soft luminance, cutting straight through the dream’s silver.

_ You should have warned me!  _ the dream gasped. 

But the fish only laughed and swam faster.

_ What say you before? I didn't hear,  _ the fish finally said, catching the dream’s wandering eyes with a quirk of their fins.

_ You did hear! _

The fish hummed softly.  _ Tell me again. _

The dream looked down at the darkened clouds and sighed.  _ Never mind. _

With a soft twinkle, the fish pressed against the dream’s side, merging itself into their silver form.  _ Please,  _ it said.

The dream huffed, but the memories of a young girl sprawling tales into the open pushed their words out:  _ I haven’t heard a good story in years,  _ they said. _ I was wondering, can you tell me one while we travel? _

The fish laughed softly, a small ringing which only the dream could hear.  _ Of course. In fact, I know a good one about a Pilot and a pegasus. _

***

Dreams cannot die, but Dreamsand is not infinite. It is only sand, awakened by the stars and put to sleep with the softest of imaginations.

Dreamsand could speak, however, if only one was willing to hear it.

Guilt nagged at the Sandman’s soul, at his body which trembled in the silence of night. So silent. He should have dived straight into that hole, he knew. At least then he wouldn't be alone with this feeling of emptiness.

His sandcloud drifted through the sky at a leisurely pace, pulled closer to the ocean by instinct; it needed no maps to find home.

Dreams whispered around him in the sand, as they always did when he could not send them out to the sleepers. Each one shouted at him with silent childishness, and some tried to grasp at his hands using tendrils of the cloud.

_ No,  _ he tried to tell them sternly with their shared language of silent imagination. Sandy pulled his hand away, and the sand drifted back into the lazy swirls of the cloud.

More questions and shouts rose, underscored by giggling.

Sandy sighed.

When he finally landed on the shore, inhaling the familiar aroma of salt, the cloud of sand dispersed into the ground. The sound of the dreams’ voices fell to a quiet drone beneath the surface.

“You’re back early,” said a familiar voice, more solid than the rest. 

Sandy whirled around, unconsciously gathering the sand beneath his feet nearer to himself.

Mother Nature shook her head, black hair tossing around her with the winds. “Do not be alarmed. I only came because the seas would not quiet their wailing.” She pointed out to the horizon’s stretch of water, where waves crashed and the sun set. No moon hung overhead tonight. “There is something you are not telling me.” Her voice was level and deep as the ocean, and she turned an even deeper, darker eye to Sandy.

He shook his head with a careless smile, shrugging his arms. The empty space in his chest screamed in protest.

Mother Nature hummed, lifting her gaze to the sky. She stood there for a moment, eyes closed as the air sifted around her in harmony, playfully billowing the ends of her dress. “The winds say you went to Easter Island earlier.” She opened her eyes and stepped forward, her feet gliding across the sand where they did not sink. “It can't have been a thousand years yet. And the Pooka does not dream any other time.”

Sandy shook his head again.

She sat gently but heavily on the ground, and her stare of cosmic black met his. “Then what troubles you, my friend?”

It was tempting to speak—not in words, never words—yet he knew only silence in that moment, perhaps far better than he had any time before. Sandy shook his head, slower this time, looking down at his feet. His hand lifted to where his heart would be, settling on the soft sands of his clothes.

Mother Nature hummed again, contemplative. 

The waves crashed along the shore in their silence.

“I saw a little tooth fairy not too far from here,” Mother Nature began suddenly, drawing back his confused attention. “She was lost in the trees. Little thing encountered a monkey whose curiosity just wouldn't be quelled.” Mother Nature’s expression turned to pity—a rare emotion on so stony a face. “So curious, it tried to rip her apart in excitement.” 

Sandy stiffened, imagining all of the terrible things that could have happened to the fairy. What about her mother?

Mother Nature's frown deepened, and a familiar bolt of anger flashed across her dark eyes, as if to reflect the resentment he didn't possess. “There are always consequences to chaos. I have  _ told  _ such things to them. My creatures know the balance of life and death does not apply to creatures like the Sisters of Flight or their kin.”

Sandy said nothing, but his breath hitched softly, the hand on his chest gripping at the folds of his clothing.

“My creatures never take more hunt than they need,” Mother Nature continued, not looking at him, “and they know not to fall to human vices such as pride. That monkey was not one of mine.” Her mouth turned up bitterly. “I killed it,” she said casually. “And I should've done the rest.”

A faint flutter arose in Sandy’s stomach, a familiar unease which made his hands tremble. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, sitting beside Mother Nature.

She sighed, calming the turbulence in her hair which flashed with lightning. “No matter. They can go live with mankind for all I care. The two seem to get along just fine, and it is not my job to tip life and death so far.”

Sandy looked up at her, at the eyes he should recognize. But there was nothing but raw power and fury now.

_ Is one life enough?  _ the sand whispered in its ancient tone of sorrow.

Mother Nature couldn't hear it above her own rage, but Sandy dipped his head in silent agreement.

For in it lay a promise that he would not sleep peacefully tonight, and who was he to argue with these forces?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter did not want to be written. I had to pull like five different parts from abandoned stories I have.
> 
> And even then, it still ended up being an alternate version of my other story [What is Advice to Fallen Stars?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28967790) where Mother Nature is more like her books and less like a child. I wrote them around the same time, so the idea stuck I guess.


End file.
